Tristan, Isolde, and the Pearl
by Cara Amnell
Summary: If only that first scene had gone a little differently, "Romeo and Juliet" could have been "Much Ado about Nothing." Very AU. Tristan/Isolde. Clean.
1. Chapter 1

(Also by Zoe Alice Latimer)

Chapter One

Tristan held very still even though the long grass brushed his face. His hand tensed around the knife. "Now," his father whispered, and he darted after the rabbit. The chase was short.

_First kill of the day, _he thought. Little did he knew how many would follow.

He smiled up at his father, who was also grinning. "Can we hunt a stag now?"

"A stag?" Father laughed.

"You promised," Tristan reminded.

"Someday, Tristan," his father promised again. He did not say, "You're too slight to take on a stag quite yet," which was true but not unknown to Tristan.

They walked back to the city, Tristan with one hand around the limp coney's hind legs, the other in the fold of his tunic. "Never go home without an offering for your lady," his father always said.

He ran his fingers over the ridges of the twisted branch and red buds. _I hope Mother likes it._

"Stay close to me," Father murmured as they connected to the flow inside the city gates. Of course, Tristan didn't- he ran off to a stall, then to his mother. "I made this for you," he told her, and brought out the bracelet.

She gave him a lovely smile, working her soft fingers through his tangled curls. "Thank you, my son."

Nightfall found Tristan and his family in a small room with men seated around a table. Tristan sat close to the fire to roast the rabbit. He wasn't paying complete attention to what his father was saying to the other man; he kept glancing over at his mother. Finally he caught her gaze, and she smiled and lifted her hand so he could see that she was wearing his gift. He smiled in something much like relief, and began to focus on what his father was so passionately saying.

He, Lord Marke, and the other tribe leaders were shouting about uniting under Lord Marke to overthrow the oppression of the marauding Irish. "Now is the time to strike," Marke urged. Tristan leaned forward as Marke continued, "My wife's delivery is near, and I feel in my heart that she will bear a son. He will inspire us."

A man burst through the door with a yelp. "The Irish are attacking!"

The room exploded into chaos. Tristan heard screaming from outside the room. "Women and children to the back!" Lord Marke roared.

Tristan tried to rip away from his mother's grip. "Let me fight!"

"No, Tristan!" she cried. They were already separated by a stormy sea of panicking people.

Tristan fought through to his father. "I need to fight!"

His father was wild-eyed. "Hide, my son!"

The first wave of Irishman broke in. Tristan's father shoved him toward Lord Marke, who was hastily lowering his wife under a trap door. Tristan protested, but soon he and Lord Marke's pregnant wife, who was starting to have contractions, were confined under the floor.

The screams above mingled with battle cries. Someone thudded heavily on top of the trapdoor. A crackling noise and heat beat down. Someone had set a fire, Tristan guessed. Lord Marke's hyperventilating wife was clutching Tristan's shoulders to keep from screaming in pain while they waited out the screeches and sobs to hush. Footsteps tramped away and faded.

Tristan laid his hand on the trapdoor, but quickly recoiled. In the dim, smoky light, he stared at the blood dripping between his fingers, then fearfully at the pregnant woman. She choked back another cry.

He put both hands on the trapdoor and heaved. The door opened slowly. Tristan wiggled out under it and the body weighting it down. When he turned to help Lord Marke's wife crawl out, he nearly vomited. The corpse, severed at the waist, still gushed blood; but what made him sick was that the mangled corpse was his father.

He staggered back into the devastation. Bloody bodies- almost all tribesman- littered the floor. With broken possessions. Fire flared in one of the corners.

Tristan gasped. One of the motionless forms seemed to be stretching out her hand, and the around the wrist wound a bracelet of twisted buds and branches.

_No. Not Mother too. If I had stayed with her, I could have protected her. _

He moved to go to her when Lord Marke's wife shrieked, scrambling toward Tristan with one hand on her swollen belly.

An Irishman appeared from the smoke and lunged for the two with his sword. Someone else stepped in front of him, skewering the Irishman before he could reach Tristan and Marke's wife. The Irishman's sword slice through his wrist from the momentum, chopping his hand off. The Irishman went down, dead.

Their rescuer turned to face them, trying to bind his blood-spurting hand.

"Lord Marke!" Tristan cried.

Lord Marke's wife surged forward and clung to his waist, sinking to the floor.

Tristan felt, rather than anything else, someone stir behind him. He whirled just as the outstretched fingers of his mother flexed and curled up. He ran to her side and helped her to her feet.  
"I thought you were dead," he whispered.

She shook her head, putting her arms around him. "I think... I think I hit my head. Oh, Tristan, you're alive. But not your father."

Lord Marke's wife screamed.

Tristan's mother's eyes cleared through her tears. She flew to Marke, Tristan on her heels. "Is she injured?"

"She's in labor," he said. "It's too early! What can I do?"

"Move over," Tristan's mother commanded. "I've delivered children before." She knelt. "Try to stay calm..."

Tristan stood stiffly, trying not to think of his father. Trying to process anything else. Wishing he could be helpful. Wishing his life and the entire village weren't burning down around him.

"It's a girl, my lord," Tristan's mother called out.

Lord Marke looked startled. His wife wept, "Let me hold her. My pearl." But her life faded before their eyes.

Lord Marke took the screaming, bloody, wet baby in his good hand and nearly dropped her. Tristan watched as he began to cry like a little girl.

Tristan understood. None of this should have happened. And yet... something about this moment was beautiful.

"You," Lord Marke rasped to the baby, "you will live. You will live. I promise you."

"I promise you," Tristan echoed.

From the time they fled the burning village and healed, Tristan trained under Lord Marke of the One Hand to fight against the Irish, and to fight _for_ Mairead, the pearl born that tragic night.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Mairead watched as Tristan brought out his full strength to attack his opponent. They were just fighting in the dusty practice ring, but the sweat dripping from Tristan's matted curls was real- as was his intense concentration. The constancy of his offense was astounding; Mairead felt that she hadn't time to breathe. Her father could barely hold his own in the duel.

Mairead knew that Tristan would win, and later Lord Marke would laugh and tell Tristan that he had only won because he had the advantage of two hands.

Tristan had grown strong since the day of her birth, although of course she couldn't remember that. It had been nine years since that day, and Tristan was a man. _My_ _protector._

From what she had heard, the role had been a close thing. He might have gone mad on the day of her birth if not for his mother's survival... and someone smaller he could latch onto to protect: her.

* * *

"No!" Tristan said.

"Bu-u-ut... Why can't I defend our people?" Mairead asked.

"Listen, it's very dangerous. You can_not_ come to the ambush because then I will be too distracted trying to protect you..."

Mairead zoned out, mentally picturing how she would fight and save everyone, and Tristan would be astonished at her skill. _I never should have tried to make you stay back and waste all your brilliance cooking soup!_ he would say in front of everyone.

Tristan interrupted her daydreaming. "Do you hear me? You won't come, right?"

Not actually sure what he had said, she thought it safe to say, "Right."

He smiled and hugged her. "I'll be back after. Maybe you can surprise me by making your famous lamb stew."

"It's not a surprise if you tell me to make it," Mairead pointed out, but she nodded, embraced by his warmth. She loved him; she loved him as the older brother he pretended to be. He walked away, waving one more time before he joined the ambush party.

Mairead dashed into her house, pulled on armor that was slightly large for her, took her bow and quiver, and ran to the woods where she could follow Tristan without being spotted.

_Why does he always have to be uptight? Like the time he found out I fancied Brodie. I am nine years old; he doesn't need to protect me like that..._

The thoughts kept going as she ran to the woods.

The ambush had already begun as Mairead dived into the bushes, waiting for the right time to attack. No one seemed worthy of her attention... except the huge man leading the raid! She came out of hiding and drew the bow, took aim, and fired. The giant chuckled as the arrow went past his body harmlessly, infuriating Mairead. She drew again and this time grazed his arm. The man grunted and glanced around to find the annoying bad shot. Panic knifed Mairead in the stomach as the giant's gaze locked with hers. He gave an evil grin and charged her.

Tristan grunted with satisfaction as his opponent fell dead at his feet. He looked up and around trying to find where he was most needed, and then he saw Mairead. Fear gripped Tristan as he saw the giant of a man charging her.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Tristan heard himself bellow. Without even thinking, he ran faster than he ever had before with one thought in his mind: _Protect Mairead to the death._

Tristan was not quick enough. He saw the man stab at Mairead. She jumped to the side but the sword sliced her arm. That was when Tristan leaped at the man. He brought his sword down, causing the man to turn his full attention on Tristan. The man kicked Tristan in the gut.

"_Run_!" he yelled to Mairead.

She didn't respond, immediately drained of color. She was half-doubled over.

_I do not have time for this! _Tristan thought desperately, flinging sweat out of his eyes as he looked at the giant man. _I have to get to that stupid girl!_

With renewed strength, he jabbed, his opponent so shocked at the ferocity of Tristan that he was unable to block the sword. Tristan rammed it through his stomach and forced him to the ground- dead.

"Mairead!" he hollered. "Mairead, what are you do-" He broke off as Mairead, looking sickeningly the way her mother had nine years before, swayed and fell to the ground.

* * *

Mairead could not move. In fact, she could not breathe. Yet she was alive, and she could feel the poison in her blood.

Yes, she was alive. But not for long.

She rocked in a way that she knew but could not place. The air was cold and she heard only a swishing, lapping sort of sound, like wind and whispers of wind.

Maybe she was dead. It was hard to tell...

The movement jerked to a stop. She fell forward, and the already black world slipped from her mind.


	3. Chapter 3

Aine, Tristan's mother, didn't have to say a word in order to share Lord Marke's grief. The two had understood each other ever since the night their spouses died. They never needed to explain to each other, only to be near. That was why Aine had joined his movement so quickly - somewhat for Tristan's sake, somewhat because Marke had probably saved their lives, but mostly because they had both lost everything but their children.  
And now they had lost that, too.  
Aine tipped her head back to study the grainy beams of the ceiling as Lord Marke held his head in his hands. She told herself, _You have no right to feel sorry for yourself while Lord Marke grieves. Tristan is alive._ But she couldn't help feeling that she had lost him. Ever since they had pushed off Mairead's funeral boat, he had been - wrong.  
Marke broke the silence with a shuddering breath. "I wish I had spent _half _as much time with Mairead as I did planning warfare. Yet, everyone will expect me to avenge her..." Marke massaged him temps. "I am so tired now." Abruptly, he broke off, locking eyes with Aine. "I haven't caught sight of Tristan since yester eve. I can only assume he's handled it badly."  
Aine glanced over her shoulder, turned back, and lowered her voice. "He keeps visiting their old haunts: the big oak, the bend in the river. I think he is looking for her, my lord. And he keeps springing up behind me like an arrow -"  
"Hello, Mother." Tristan leaned to kiss her cheek.  
Aine jumped, pressing a hand over her pounding heart. She raised her eyebrows significantly at Marke.  
"I see what you mean," he murmured.  
Tristan stepped forward, bowing. His hand never left his sword hilt. "My lord."  
"Tristan, my son." Lord Marke's brow wrinkled. "You seem... tolerably well."  
"I am very ill, my lord," Tristan contradicted. "But it is nothing Mairead's stew will not fix. Brew, stew. Lamb stew."  
Aine felt sick. "Tristan, Mairead will not be making stew tonight. Or any night. Please think back."  
Tristan's eyes darkened. "Don't say it. You _all _say it. But Mairead - she's only gone for a little while."  
"Dead," said Lord Marke bluntly. Aine felt the pain that made him so sharp and cruel about it. Restlessly, the lord stood and walked toward Tristan. "We must both face it and move on."  
Tristan backed away toward the door, wild-eyed. "She is not. I can feel her calling. She's nearby, only far away. Both. But finding her is not impossible. That is what we must do, or at least, I must." His fist tightened around his sword. "And whoever keeps me from her will pay."  
"Then you will be charging many Irish with death," Lord Marke said wearily, touching Tristan's shoulder. "They took her in the first place."  
Tristan's pupils seemed to focus, straighten out. For one moment he looked thoughtfully lucid. Aine felt hope rise in her heart.  
Tristan pulled from Marke's grip as he pivoted for the door. "Lamb stew," he muttered.

* * *

Mairead's eyelids were so heavy. When she was finally able to open them, she saw that she was in a dark hut. She tried to sit up, but there was an unbelievable pain in her arm. It took everything she had not to let tears fall.

_Where am I? What's wrong with my arm?_

Before she could do anything, the door to the hut opened and a beautiful woman entered. She smiled at Mairead.

"Hello. How are you feeling?"

_Gods! She's Irish! Why didn't I find anything to defend my self with? Tristan would kill me! Tristan!_

"Where is Tristan? Who are you? Where am I? What's wrong with my arm?" Mairead could have asked more questions but the woman raised her hand.

"My name is Isolde. I don't know who Tristan is. I found you on the beach. You were unconscious, and you had a deep poisoned cut on your arm. I have hid you here, and no one but my maidservant Bragnae and I know about you. I have dressed your arm with the antidote. You will be fine and will be in full health soon." Isolde finished and smiled.

* * *

Tristan crept to the shoreline. The wooden boat creaked as he sat in it, rocking on the sand and trying to inch toward the water.  
Tristan heard a voice and ducked, waiting for whoever it was to pass. A few moments later, all was quiet. He wondered if he'd imagined it.  
He sat up and took an oar in each hand, pushing off into the sea in Ireland's general direction.  
Lord Marke had given him the idea. If Mairead was alive, and Tristan knew she was, she'd be in Ireland. The though made his blood race. He'd kill any Irish who touched her.  
And so he stole a boat. Did he know the direction? Not really. But woe betide whoever got in his way.

* * *

Isolde and Mairead spent as much time together as possible. Mairead told Isolde all about Tristan and her family and everything else. Isolde told Mairead all about growing up a princess and growing up in the castle and life in Ireland . They also figured out that Isolde's betrothed was dead.

Weeks passed, and Mairead and Isolde felt like sisters. Bragnae seemed like the nitpicking mother.

"Isolde, we should leave. Your father will get suspicious."

"It's fine, Bragnae. You need to stop worrying," Isolde said. "Come sit down with us. You don't need to look out. No one ever comes out this way."

Isolde didn't realize how wrong she was, because at this very moment Tristan was scouring the beach for Mairead.


End file.
